


Jailbirds & Other Native Santa Barbara Wildlife

by PazithiGallifreya



Category: Psych
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 05:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19419118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PazithiGallifreya/pseuds/PazithiGallifreya
Summary: Lassiter always knew the day would come that he’d have to do this. Hell, he’d fantasized about it frequently, usually while the man in question was dancing around him like an overcaffeinated middle schooler. For a moment he’d almost grinned, a pithy quip on his tongue about Spencer finally getting his comeuppance, but it fizzled and died before he’d even finished reaching for the handcuffs.(Or, that one in which Lassiter finally gets to arrest Shawn Spencer, but his damned inconvenient conscience ruins the whole moment.)





	Jailbirds & Other Native Santa Barbara Wildlife

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place somewhere in the proximity of the last half of season 4. There are some references to "Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark" and “Lassie Did a Bad Bad Thing” but I wouldn't consider them to be *major* spoilers.

This looked bad. Shawn knew it looked bad long before the blare of sirens approached the warehouse. This man had been a thorn in Shawn’s ass for weeks, a former non-SBPD client who hadn’t liked the truth when it was handed to him, that his girlfriend had left of her own choice and wasn't coming back. A dumb, simple, stupid case, just like Johnson himself, who had decided that Shawn had somehow convinced his girlfriend not to return to him, as if Shawn cared in the least. Already Shawn had been in two physical altercations with him, one which had been broken up by Lassiter and Jules only two days ago. The assault charges were bunk, anyway - Shawn had witnesses who could attest that he’d not been the one to throw the first punch.

Just his luck that his current case, totally unrelated (he’d thought, at least) to the last one, would bring him right back, now standing over a familiar and very thoroughly dead body, the apparent murder weapon the same piece of steel rebar he’d picked up in the dark parking lot on his way in to fend off any potential assailants (or stray raccoons - this place was surrounded by trees on three sides after all). The man’s skull had been smashed from behind quite efficiently. Shawn noted the angle of the blow and position of the body, concluding swiftly that he’d never heard his attacker and had died almost instantly.

Worse yet, he wasn’t supposed to be here. Chief Vick had told him he wasn’t working on this case and he was to clear off, that her detectives could handle a little drug smuggling ring without the aid of a psychic. But then Gus went off to some pharma conference or other in San Francisco earlier in the week and he’d gotten so _bored_...

When SBPD’s finest came barreling in through the loading dock door, Shawn simply dropped the damning evidence and reached for the ceiling a heartbeat before he heard the familiar bark. He stood stock still as he watched Carlton Lassiter taking in the scene and reaching the obvious (though incorrect) conclusion. Well... _shit._

“Spencer!? What the hell?”

* * *

Lassiter always knew the day would come that he’d have to do this. Hell, he’d fantasized about it frequently, usually while the man in question was dancing around him like an overcaffeinated middle schooler. For a moment he’d almost grinned, a pithy quip on his tongue about Spencer finally getting his comeuppance, but it fizzled and died before he’d even finished reaching for the handcuffs.

After all, he’d always thought it would be for something like trespassing, or possibly impersonating a member of the clergy, given Spencer’s proclivities for breaking rules he thought were for mere mortals. _Murder_ though?

Spencer’s hands were still firmly stretched high, his eyes darting between himself, O’Hara, and the half-dozen officers behind them (including McNab, whose mouth was halfway hanging open in shock - he’d have to talk to the young man later about that). Spencer’s lopsided grin faltered as Lassiter shook himself out of his thoughts and began approaching, cuffs in hand.

“Lassyfrass, buddy... I know what this looks like but you gotta believe me, I wouldn’t kill someone like this-”

A faint nausea teased at the back of Lassiter’s throat as he reached up for Spencer’s wrist, pulling it toward the small of his back.

“You have the right to remain silent.” _And for the love of God, Spencer, for once in your life, be silent,_ he thought.

“Lassy... c’mon-”

“Anything you say-”

Lassiter braced his weight back as Spencer twisted in his grasp like an eel, trying to catch O’Hara’s eye. He could hear feet shuffling nervously behind him, no doubt one pair belonging to the discomfited McNab.

“Jules- you know me, call him off, give me a chance and I can solve this, find your real murderer!”

Lassiter adjusted his grip, getting the cuffs on both wrists, finally. Spencer continued his fidgeting while O'Hara bit at her bottom lip, messing up her normally impeccable lipstick and looking on with a pained expression.

“-can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to-”

Spencer’s twisting continued, nearly pulling Lassiter off balance and he grit his teeth, pressing down an impulse to _make_ Spencer comply immediately. Normally he’d not hesitate to rough up a perp a little, despite Chief Vick’s perpetual warnings about potential lawsuits. Hell, he’d normally not hesitate to rough up Spencer a little simply for being an annoying little shit, but the scent of rising panic rolling off of him poked at some hitherto unseen weak spot in Lassiter’s heart (although if asked, later, he'd simply say he hadn't wanted to upset O'Hara and McNab, who persisted in considering the fraud to be a friend of some sort, he certainly had no _personal_ desire to ever be gentle with Spencer).

Lassiter truly had thought he’d enjoy this, once, but now he only felt vaguely ill. He’d recognized the victim - the self-same man he’d found Spencer in a fist-fight with less than a week ago, assault charges still pending. Spencer. _Murder._ The mathematics just didn’t parse inside his head, but he had a duty to carry out. The rest of Spencer’s rights spilled out of Lassiter’s lips without conscious thought, all while he just wanted to say _please just for once stop screwing around_. He pulled Spencer toward his own unmarked Crown Vic, bypassing the better equipped patrol cars. Spencer kept trying to look backwards at O’Hara, making everything more difficult than it needed to be, to Lassiter’s complete lack of surprise. Spencer stumbled in the uneven gravel of the dimly lit parking lot as they neared the car. He grabbed at an upper arm and Spencer's belt, hauling him back up before he could land on the gravel face down. _I really_ _must be going soft_ , he thought to himself, shaking his head.

“You know I didn’t kill that guy, Lassy, this is sooo unnecessary. I mean, I know you’ve been wanting to get handcuffs on me for ages, but you could have just asked. Anyway, I prefer the fluffy pink ones.”

Spencer’s laugh following his standard bit of innuendo had a brittleness that set off some tiny alarm in Lassiter’s head. He drew in a steadying breath and maneuvered Spencer into the back seat, reaching across him to buckle him in. He paused to stare through the opposite window, still uncomfortably in Spencer’s personal space, managing a hissed order of “Spencer... please just.. _be patient.._ and for the love of sweet justice don’t fight me for once!” in Spencer’s ear.

Lassiter grit his teeth and prayed that the fake psychic would understand. _I’m not your enemy_ , he thought as hard as he could in Spencer’s direction, wishing just for once that the fraud actually could read minds. He heard his partner make her way to the other side of car as he withdrew, shutting the door on Spencer and climbing into the driver’s seat as O’Hara settled across from him. He started the car and did a swift three-point turn, listening to the gravel crunch under the tires as he pulled back onto the main road.

It was nearly three in the morning and they were all tired. Still, he’d not expected Spencer to go so quietly. He glanced in the rearview mirror to see Spencer hunched forward, no doubt uncomfortable with his hands trapped behind him. His head swayed slightly side to side as the car turned. The silence filled up the car like something gelatinous; Lassiter could almost feel it oozing across his skin. He’s spent years telling Spencer to shut up, wishing at times that he could just duct tape the man’s mouth shut, but now it just felt utterly unnatural. No doubt Spencer would have the cuffs worked off before they reached the station, anyway, but Lassiter silently prayed he wouldn't do anything truly stupid, like try to run.

Beside him, O’Hara kept glancing back. He contemplated giving her a warning look, that speaking to Spencer would only make things worse, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, and bit his tongue when she finally spoke.

“Shawn, for what it’s worth, I believe you when you say you didn’t kill that guy, but you have to understand--”

Spencer’s head shot up and he giggled like a slightly mad eight year old. “Yea, Jules, I get it, okay? You had a bunch of black-and-whites standing behind you and you all walk in on some nutjob with a piece of bloody rebar. Hell, I’d have arrested me too. But! But but but... The thing is? I didn’t do it. You know I didn’t do it. Which means someone else did it, and they're still out there. Other thing is, I can find out who _did_ do it, exceeeept.... well, now it’s gonna be hard if I’m stuck in jail. Jams up the vibes, jail does, you know. Hard to get a good read from a jail cell.” Spencer paused for a moment and sniffled dramatically. “Actually, Jules, could you do me a favor?”

Lassiter watched the road but also watched the rearview out of the corner of his eye, waiting to hear what the faux-psychic would ask his partner, and ready to intervene if necessary. O’Hara sighed, torn between duty and concern. “I.... well, it depends on what it is. There are rules about--”

Spencer swung his head around dramatically, gurning like a fool and propping his head on the corner of Lassiter's seat to stare at Juliet. “I’m not gonna ask you let me go, Jules. Just, could you scratch my nose for me? It's itchy.”

Lassiter swore as his partner rolled her eyes, but nonetheless reached across the gap into the back seat to scratch the idiot's nose. Leave it to Spencer to spend his last few moments not stewing in a holding cell in the basement of the SBPD flirting with O'Hara.

* * *

Lassiter leaned his head against the coolness of the two-way mirror outside of Interrogation Room Two. He could see Spencer fidgeting in the seat, one knee bouncing up and down at an almost alarming rate. Sometimes he would swing his head around like he was tracking a mosquito about the room, or scrunch his nose up, or twist his mouth to one side further than human anatomy really ought to allow.

To his surprise, Spencer had not, in fact, wriggled his way out of the handcuffs on the ride over. Lassiter had heard a slight huff that might almost have been a laugh when he'd pulled Spencer's wrists to inspect the cuffs after taking him out of the car. _“Don't you trust me, Lassyface?” “I don't know Spencer, should we find out how far I can pick you up and throw you?”_

Spencer had trotted up the steps of the SBPD in front of Lassiter like he was just dropping in to flirt with Jules, pester him, and nose around Chief Vick's office for stray cases. It had taken Lassiter half a moment to shake himself back into reality and catch up with Spencer, grabbing the back of his shirt just before the doors. How was Spencer planning on opening the door, anyway? With his teeth?

He wouldn't call Chief Vick at 3:30 in the morning on anything less than a life-or-death emergency, so he'd jammed Spencer into an interrogation room to wait until he knew her alarm went off at 5. He'd been leaning against the glass now for over half an hour, his eyelids drooping slightly as time wore on. He was getting too old to be pulling all-nighters.

He nearly fell when O'Hara arrived a moment later, startling him out of his doze with a cup of coffee. “You could go in and talk to him, Carlton. Or I could. You don't seriously think he might have just murdered that guy? I mean it's kind of obvious Johnson was a drug dealer given he was in that warehouse tonight so...”

Lassiter shrugged. “Truthfully? No. Not in cold blood, anyway. Maybe Johnson attacked him again, and Spencer had to do it, I don't know. I'm not even sure he was the one to land that blow in the first place – Spencer's not exactly an Olympic boxing champion, is he?” Lassiter laughed, somewhat ill-humoredly. “Biggest workout he gets on the regular is probably running after food trucks, so no - I don't _seriously_ think he could bash a chunk that size out of a man's skull.”

O'Hara twitched a lip but didn't quite smile, her face pinching in worry. Lassiter had never understood his partner's interest in Spencer, who was, in Lassiter's estimation rude, pushy, disrespectful, and impossibly juvenile, and yet she continued to expend energy constantly _worrying_ about the man-child. _Must be some kind of mother hen reflex._ _Oh who am I kidding? I'm not much better lately. Why do I let him get in my head like this?_

Lassiter drank down a gulp of the creamy, overly sweet coffee. _She always knows how to make it. Maybe Spencer isn't as special as he thinks_. A blood-splattered piece of steel lay in an evidence bag upstairs. He could almost feel the weight of it pressing down on all of them. _I'll bet good money Spencer's prints are the only ones we find on the damned thing_.

* * *

In the end, Chief Vick chose to interrogate Spencer herself. “You're too close to this case, both of you. I'll deal with him.”

 _You've always been rather friendly to him yourself_ , he'd wanted to say, but knew better. O'Hara had gone home to sleep for a few hours, telling him to call her if anything major developed. Lassiter himself had stretched out on a bench in the break room for a catnap that had lasted all of an hour before the restless worry buzzing under his skin had him up and moving again.

Why had Johnson been in that warehouse? Why had Spencer, for that matter? He almost didn't care about the former – Johnson was probably no more than a small-time criminal, a drug dealer who'd fallen victim to his own trade. It wouldn't be the first time a deal had gone bad in some out-of-the-way place. So why the _hell_ was Spencer there? He knew the Chief had told him to clear off just yesterday. _Of course he was there, he's always showing up when he's not wanted. Dammit, Spencer._

* * *

“I'm sorry but he's going to have to stay until we sort this out, Henry.” Chief Vick held the telephone receiver a few inches away from her ear as Spencer Senior shouted from the other end. Lassiter could only understand about half the words, which were mostly empty threats aimed at a former partner who was entirely too forgiving, but he didn't care what Henry thought at the moment. He had no doubt the man would be darkening their doorsteps later in the day to shout some more. Lassiter rose and decided to wait at his own desk, having no stomach for the father's ineffectual anger.

* * *

Lassiter reorganized his desk drawers for the sake of having something to do, then went to the break room to brew another pot of coffee, barked at Buzz McNab's obscene morning chipperness, and proceeded to pace the length of the bullpen roughly half a dozen times until the pressure of his coworkers' following stares pushed him back to his desk.

The whole Drimmer escapade simmered in the back of his mind like a witch's brew, various trivia and imagery bubbling to the surface from the murky depths of his memory. A gun aimed at Spencer's head in his own apartment seemed to spend the longest amount of time bobbing at the surface and Lassiter went back to the break room again to refill his coffee mug for something like the fifth time.

* * *

“Can I borrow a harmonica? How 'bout a tin cup to bang against the bars? And what's with this hideous orange color, I look like an escapee from a Tennessee college sports bar!”

Shawn Spencer was bored. He was so. fucking. _bored._

He'd spent half an hour arguing with his dad about nothing even remotely useful. It would have been one thing if Henry had told him he wouldn't post his bail, but given that they don't even offer bail to accused murderers, the subject never came up. Yet somehow, his father still managed to chew him a new one for a full thirty minutes, and it was the same damned refrain as always – too reckless, too selfish, no direction, blah-de-blah-de-blah, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Shawn had tuned it out after about the first couple of minutes, anyway. He could recite the tirade by rote at this point. His eidetic memory was image-based, not auditory as his mother's was, but he'd heard it so many times, even if he were high as a kite and heavily concussed he could repeat it without missing a beat.

Arguing with Henry, though, at least had been something to _do_.

* * *

Two days had passed since he & his partner had been taken off the case and explicitly barred from getting further involved by Chief Vick. The phrase “Conflict of Interest” had been lobbed about Vick's office like a hail of rubber dodgeballs bouncing off the top of his skull. O'Hara had made what Lassiter thought was a reasonable and well-thought-out argument as to why they should be allowed to continue their investigation. Lassiter, for his part, had done a lot of loud shouting, and earned a threat of a formal reprimand if he didn't get the hell out of Vick's sight.

* * *

On the third day, Lassiter finally succumbed to O'Hara's guilt tripping. _“He's miserable, Carlton, I'm sure he wouldn't mind a visit from you. He needs the distraction, trust me. Just go and let him be annoying at you for fifteen minutes, it won't kill you.”_

It just might, he thought. It just might.

* * *

“Miserable” isn't quite the word he would have used. Lassiter arrived down at the lock up and ignored the hoots and hollers from the morons in the drunk tank. Spencer had been taken down to the last cell at the end of the hall, somewhat removed from the rest of the zoo. He heard Spencer's wailing well before he saw him, at any rate.

“I'm stuck in Folsom Prison and time keeps draggin' on, but that train keeps a rollin' on down to San Antooooooone.”

“You're off key, Spencer,” he yelled down the hallway over the man's caterwauling. _Way to ruin a classic Cash tune,_ he thought, shaking his head. _Why does his voice sound so weird, anyway?_ Spencer was a ham, but after that case with Guster's old singing group, it wasn't like he didn't know that Spencer could carry something resembling a tune when he wanted to. _Probably trying to get the other perps riled up._ A few cries of “shut up” followed by unprintable invective issuing from the other cells proved the effectiveness of the idiot's efforts, if that was his goal.

Lassiter had nearly done a double-take upon arriving at the end of the hallway. Somehow, Spencer had managed to hoist himself up the bars to hang, monkey-like, his feet counterbracing the grip of his hands as he perched upside down, the blood rushing in the direction of gravity into his head as he belted out his butchered rendition of “Folsom Prison Blues” for all the world like some sort of demented ape.

Lassiter reached up with a fist and banged against the bars, meaning to get Spencer's attention. The gesture startled the would-be Tarzan into loosening his grip and sliding head-first down the bars to the concrete floor below. Lassiter winced, although Spencer had managed to break most of his fall against his hands and roll sideways against the wall.

“Ow! Dammit Lassy, couldn't you just say 'hello' or, heck, I'd take 'howdy' or even an attempt at a duet over _that_ \--”

Lassiter crossed his arms and stood, not quite managing to look Spencer in the eye. The jailbird rubbed at the back of his head overdramatically and shook himself loose of the adrenaline hit and Lassiter absolutely did not feel even one shred of guilt over making him fall, not even a tiny bit, and certainly wasn't the least bit concerned that the man was apparently climbing the walls now, quite literally. “I'd have better luck trying to harmonize with a pack of hyenas, Spencer. What did Johnny Cash ever do to deserve that abuse, anyway?”

Spencer pressed himself against the bars, sliding his hands out paw at Lassiter's arms with the tips of his fingers. “Don't be a half-rotten cantaloupe, Lassyfrass. There's not exactly much else to do down here, now is there? I mean given that nobody is telling me anything or, ya know, doing something useful like _getting me the hell out of here_ so I can solve that guy's murder. Which, I might add, wasn't done by me. I don't _do_ murders, Lassy. They're messy and the sight of blood makes Gus cry and faint like a little girl, and who wants to see that?”

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “Why did I let O'Hara talk me into this? You know what, Spencer, you seem to be keeping yourself entertained well enough without me. So why don't you continue making friends with all these lovely criminals while the real police clean up your mess?”

Lassiter turned to leave but Spencer had somehow gotten a grip on his jacket sleeve, halting him.

“C'mon Lassy, I'm dying in here!”

“You're not dying, Spencer. I know O'Hara has been slipping you plenty of junk food and pineapple smoothies-”

“But I'm _bored,_ Lassy.”

 _Jeez, what a child,_ Lassiter thought, and rolled his eyes again. Something in Spencer's face and voice gave him slight pause, but he pulled himself free of the overgrown adolescent's grasp and left. He had cases to work on, after all – not Spencer's, of course, but actual _work_.

* * *

“Chief, is there any news on Shawn?”

Lassiter kept his eyes glued to the case file he was studying, pretending he didn't hear his partner's voice from the opened door to Vick's office. _I don't care_ , he told himself, for the umpteenth time this week. It was Friday and he'd finally be away from this place for a couple of days, if he could just make it to 5 o'clock.

“We have some leads, O'Hara, and they are being worked. That's all I will tell you.”

“Good ones, I hope?”

Lassiter could just about hear Vick's patience wearing thin. “You know why I'm not sharing details. You and your partner can't go haring off on this case, and that's final. I've already had to warn off Guster and Spencer's father and I assure you that we have more than enough cooks in this kitchen to be getting on with.”

A pause, and in his mind's eye Lassiter could see O'Hara picking at her sleeve, pursing her lips, and coming to a decision on how much to risk with their boss.

“He's going nuts down in the lock up, Chief, you know how he is. Have you seen him lately? If we can't get him out soon, I'm worried he might-”

“Mister Spencer is just going to have to sit tight, O'Hara. I can't do anything until we either catch the real murderer or find enough evidence to exclude him. You already know we didn't find any prints at the scene other than his. We can't be seen giving preferential treatment to a consultant, do you have any idea what the fallout of that would be?”

“Yes! Yes, I get it. It's just...”

“You're dismissed O'Hara. And I know I don't have to remind you that visitation is on your own time, not the department's.”

“Yes, Chief.”

Lassiter coughed and reached for his coffee to cover up the fact that he'd been staring at Vick's office door when O'Hara emerged, but he needn't have bothered. O'Hara kept her eyes glued to the floor as she shuffled back to her desk, dropping heavily into the chair and dragging her fingers through her hair in frustration, leaving her normally tidy coiffure sticking up at odd angles. She didn't seem to notice or care.

* * *

Lassiter had a nice, relaxing weekend. He'd watched some old westerns, spent a few hours at the shooting range, and managed to get all his shirts ironed and put up. He'd spent most of Sunday methodically cleaning and oiling his entire gun collection. Not because he'd needed a distraction, no, not at all. It was just important to make sure his weapons were all in good working order and properly maintained.

* * *

The hollering of the drunk tank was nothing Lassiter ever paid any attention too, but the sarcastic inquiry about “changing the crybaby's diaper” somehow managed to get through his filter. He hurried down to the end of the lockup, not because he really cared, but, you know, he had to check and make sure that Spencer hadn't injured himself or something. That involved a lot of paperwork, after all, someone in custody needing medical treatment and whatnot, and he just didn't want to bother with it on a Monday morning.

Spencer, for his part, did not seem to be bleeding, nor was he currently drowning in a pool of his own tears. He did not, however, seem to notice Lassiter's arrival; no “Lassy” or “Lassyface” or “Lassypants” or any other of the man's sordid nicknames emerged. Instead, Spencer was laid out on the concrete floor, his head jammed into a corner at an angle that looked frankly painful to Lassiter, one knee drawn up under his hands and rocking himself slightly.

 _He's finally gone off the deep end completely_ , Lassiter thought. _It's barely been one week_!

“...Spencer?”

The man's rhythmic rocking motion paused for a brief moment, then continued. Lassiter knew Spencer had heard him, but for whatever reason, decided to continue his sulking rather than respond.

“Uh....” Lassiter paused, clearing his throat to fill the silence. “The Chief says they've made some inroads on your case.”

Another brief pause, more silence, more rocking.

“Are you... alright, Spencer?”

The swaying knee slowed and finally halted. The reply eventually arrived, like a dead leaf drifting to the ground. “I'm stuck in a box and my brain is eating itself, Carlton, what the hell do you think?”

Lassiter flinched. _When the hell does he ever call me Carlton?_ Spencer slowly rolled to his side, peering askance at Lassiter from his concrete bed. The man clearly hadn't shaved in the week since he'd been put up and the bruised look of his eyes told of poor or absent sleep. “Jeez, Spencer, you look like shit.”

“Cheers, Carlton.” With that, he rolled onto his back and jammed his head into the corner again and resumed... whatever the hell it was he'd been doing.

Lassiter stood, watching him for several long minutes during which Spencer failed (or more likely refused) to acknowledge his continued presence. He was about to turn and leave when Spencer spoke again.

“Henry's right, you know. I might not have murdered that man, but I was bound to get locked up for something, sooner or later. I kind of hate him, you know, really, because he's always right, and it's annoying as hell, I really fucking _hate_ that he's right. He locked me in a car trunk a few times when I was a kid, told me it'd save my life one day, and the sick thing is, the bastard was _right_. And he's right about something else - I never stop and think shit through. The ironic thing, Carlton... the ironic thing is... actually I can never _stop_ thinking. No matter how badly I want to. I always think. Think, and think, and think. It's just always about the wrong thing... Oh! Before I forget! Be a doll and tell Juliet I'm sorry for shouting at her yesterday. I didn't mean to, I just...”

Lassiter blinked, waiting for Spencer to tell him whatever he'd “just” been or thought or felt or whatever, but nothing more came forth. “Alright, Spencer, I'll tell her. Try not to...” Lassiter rolled his neck and shoulders, feeling too hot all of a sudden. “Just try to hang in there. Vick's been in a good mood this morning, I think they must be getting close.”

* * *

It was 11:32 a.m. on Wednesday when the real murderer of small-time drug dealer Maurice Johnson was finally dragged down to the lock-up at the SBPD. Lassiter and O'Hara had both stood up at the same time, pushing their way into Chief Vick's office.

Vick actually laughed at them, her eyes resting particularly on Lassiter. He ruffled a bit under her humor at his expense but chose not to acknowledge it. “Yes, you can go let him out now. We'll deal with the paperwork later. He's spent enough time crawling up the walls of my lock-up, and I'm sure Henry will be glad to be able to shout at him in the comfort of his own home.”

* * *

Lassiter and O'Hara stood impatiently as the man with the keys sauntered entirely too leisurely down the hallway, his hips swaying as he whistled tunelessly. Lassiter glared at the man's back. “Can you hurry up already? This isn't a damned park, it's a police department. Whistle on your own time, Officer.” Chastised, the man walked in a more business-like fashion the rest of the way, opening the door to Spencer's “box” as he'd put it a couple days ago.

Lassiter stood at the open cell, staring down at Spencer still rocking away on the floor like some kind of lunatic asylum inmate. “Get up, Spencer, it's time for you to vacate the premises, or we'll start charging you rent.” He barely resisted the urge to nudge Spencer with the toe of his shoe, but was vaguely disturbed at the man's lack of response.

O'Hara shoved her way past him. “Carlton!” She leaned down and pried the hand resting on his knee up and Lassiter silently thanked the Lord in heaven that the rest of the fake psychic followed as she pulled him to his feet. Spencer blinked like a man walking out of a dark room into broad sunshine. Lassiter stepped back as O'Hara pulled him along, Spencer trailing obediently behind his partner like a small child holding its mother's hand.

* * *

Lassiter lingered behind and let O'Hara deal with the semi-comatose Spencer, taking him to retrieve his possessions and giving him a ride to... probably either his apartment, the Psych office, or Guster's apartment, he thought. Not Henry Spencer's, Lassiter was certain of that, although he had no doubt the man's overbearing and overprotective father was making Spencer's transition back to civilian life as traumatic as humanly possible.

The more Lassiter learned about Henry Spencer's frankly bizarre childrearing methods, the more astounded he was that Spencer wasn't even more maladjusted. That he had not, in fact, committed any murders, beginning with his own father, was actually the surprising thing. _Does anyone have a father worth spit anymore_? Lassiter had few memories of his own father, as the man had not taken much interest in his offspring. Growing up, he'd mourned that empty space, but he wondered now if perhaps it was preferable to being regularly chased through the woods and locked in car trunks.

No wonder Spencer turned out to be a bit claustrophobic. A week and a half. That's all it had taken. A week and a half. Lassiter couldn't quite fathom how someone could be reduced to a basket case in that short amount of time. _Well, let O'Hara deal with it_ , he thought. _She seems to get some kind of satisfaction out of clucking over his boo-boos_.

* * *

The next week came and went. They solved a string of convenience store burglaries that could have been mopped up by a child with a toy fingerprinting kit, which was a good thing, really, because Lassiter's mind kept drifting off in odd directions at the most random moments. He didn't care about Spencer. The man was a jackass and a pain in his backside. So why did he keep getting flashes of a man rocking himself on a concrete floor? That disturbed version of Spencer had even shown up in one of his dreams, a couple nights ago. He glanced across the bullpen at his partner. O'Hara was typing up the report on the burglaries in between disinterested yawns. “O'Hara.... uh, I don't suppose you've spoken to Spencer lately? Not that I care, but curious what he's doing, since he's not been swanning around here this week...”

O'Hara blinked at him and shrugged. “I don't know, he didn't answer my text message yesterday. I called Gus, but he said he hasn't really heard from Shawn much this week either.”

“Hm. Probably plotting something, then.”

O'Hara lifted an eyebrow, tilting her head and letting one side of her nose scrunch up like she sometimes did when she thought something he said was inappropriate.

“What? You think he's in trouble again? You'd think after the last couple of weeks, he'd keep his head down for at least a little while.”

His partner seemed to consider what he'd said, then shook her head at him. “I don't think he's working right now, Carlton. Come to think of it, actually, that kind of worries me...”

“I'm sure he just needed a break, O'Hara. Hell, it might do him some good to take some time off.”

O'Hara said nothing, but her expression wasn't encouraging. She clearly didn't agree with his assessment. _The ironic thing is... actually I can never stop thinking. No matter how badly I want to._ Come to think of it, neither did he. Lassiter glanced at the clock and decided it was late enough to call it a night. He suddenly felt quite tired indeed. And maybe like he needed a drink.

* * *

There was a word he'd heard once. _Synchronicity_. It was back when he was in college and sharing an apartment with some stoner hippie liberal arts major who believed in things like karma and vibes and destiny. He'd chalked it up to the man's prodigious weed habit and ignored most of his inane ramblings (and routinely opened every window in the apartment, while shouting at the moron not to smoke that shit there because his own name was on the damned lease also, and dammit he did NOT want to go to class smelling like that shit).

_You astound me._

He pretended to have no memory of that night, something like four years ago now, when he'd said those words to Spencer. He remembered more than enough to have been thoroughly mortified the next morning upon waking with the worst hangover he'd ever had.

Funny, now, that he should walk into the same bar, to the same seat, and find Spencer slumped there, three sheets to the wind and babbling something nonsensical to a dark-haired woman who was clearly not impressed with the act but angling for free drinks. It had to be deliberate, he thought. The woman, however, noticed Lassiter's approach – still dressed precisely as he'd been when he'd walked out of the office, tie and jacket included – long before her inebriated companion did, and decided she'd rather be elsewhere. He glared at her retreating back as she sauntered over to the other end of the bar and more promising prospects. Spencer, however, simply took another gulp of the frilly, fluorescent-colored, paper umbrella'd concoction he'd likely been slurping down all evening, if the similar empty glasses scattered on the bar around him were any indication.

Lassiter stood for a minute, watching the man's back and deciding for himself if he really wanted to do this or not. _I'm not going to spend yet another week seeing this obnoxious man laying about on the floor in my own damned dreams. Damned conscience._ He nodded to himself and slid onto the stool that the woman had previously occupied. “Spencer.”

Spencer's head turned by slow measures, like an aircraft carrier moving against a strong current. His bloodshot eyes moved up and down over Lassiter, somehow managing to look shrewd despite the fact that he was perilously close to falling onto the floor. “Class..classy Lass... see.”

Lassiter pulled the glass from his slack fingers and downed the remnants of it in one gulp, gesturing to the barman. “Pay up, Spencer, you're going home.”

“Don't... don't wanna.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes and reached into Spencer's back pocket, yanking his wallet out. Spencer squeaked like a rubber dog toy (which was appropriate, really, Lassiter thought, given that he looked about like something a dog might roll in at the moment). Picking through the contents of the wallet, Lassiter could only shake his head at finding nothing but a few crumpled dollar bills and a single credit card embossed with the name Burton Guster. He kept the Visa and threw the rest of the wallet back on the bar in front of Spencer. He pulled out his own billfold and jammed Guster's card in to return to him at earliest convenience. He fished a handful of his own cash out and threw it down on the bar, estimating the total based on the number of empty glasses and swore under his breath at the chronic fraud sitting beside him. The bar tender returned after a moment with his change and after a moment's debate in his head, Lassiter left the man an average tip and retrieved the key to Spencer's bike from him, along with the helmet sitting on the stool to Spencer's other side. Spencer made a grab for the key and Lassiter caught his wrist firmly. “You can barely stand, Spencer, you are absolutely not getting on that bike tonight, and if you try, I'll drag your ass back to the station and have you booked for DUI.”

Spencer froze and gave Lassiter a look of pure terror, and began pulling away from him, stumbling and nearly causing Lassiter to lose his own balance as well. _Deja vu_ , Lassiter thought. _He's determined to do a face plant in front of me sooner or later._

“Spencer! Come on now, I said I'd take you home. Maybe if you behave yourself and be a good little fake psychic, I won't leave you on the sidewalk for the muggers to pick clean after you throw up on your shoes.”

Spencer did, indeed, throw up, almost as soon as they stepped out into the night air. Lassiter could only thank God for small mercies when it all ended up in a large planter in front of the bar and not all over either of them. Not that he cared if Spencer ruined one of his juvenile tee shirts or counterfeit brand tennis shoes, but he was about to put this jackass into the back of his own car after all. _Why do I bother?_

* * *

The key to Spencer's apartment wasn't on the key ring with his bike key, and apparently nowhere else on his person either. Lassiter had ultimately resorted to shoving Spencer against his car and giving him a full pat-down and could only swear a blue streak when he came up empty handed.

“Where the hell is it, Spencer?”

The drunk man shrugged and closed his eyes, snuffling against the door frame of Lassiter's Crown Vic while apparently considering its merits as a pillow. “Oh no you don't, Spencer.”

* * *

Slightly more sober but still definitely in the general vicinity of “drunk,” Spencer was now slumped on Lassiter's sofa with an ancient and slightly musty smelling afghan pulled from the back of a closet thrown haphazardly over him. “If you have to throw up again and can't make it to the toilet, use this,” Lassiter barked as he dropped a garbage can down next to the sofa beside Spencer. Spencer flinched at the noise of the metal pail clanging on the floor and Lassiter could not muster up an ounce of sympathy. _You've been in worse shape_ , a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his head. Giving it a mental swat, Lassiter went to the kitchen to fill a glass with tap water, which he drank down himself before filling it a second time to take to his unwanted house guest.

He put the glass down on a side table and flopped into his favorite chair, before nudging the water toward Spencer. “I suggest you drink that before you fall asleep. You're going to feel like shit in the morning anyway, but it'll be worse if you don't. But you'd better not piss yourself on my couch. There's a bathroom down the hall.” Lassiter gestured vaguely, figuring even drunk, Spencer could probably find his way there. Hell, he could use his “psychic powers” to navigate for all Lassiter cared, as long as he managed to hit the toilet bowl. Spencer thrust a hand out from under the afghan, groping half-blindly. Lassiter placed the glass within his fingers before he could slap it onto the floor and Spencer grunted something approximating a “thank you” before sipping at it.

“Why?”

Lassiter blinked. “Why what? Shouldn't I be asking you that?”

“Why'd you come get me from the bar?”

“I didn't. I'd planned on getting a drink before heading home. I just didn't see any reason to let you get yourself killed on that damned bike of yours or get run over trying to walk halfway across town when you could barely stand up.”

Spencer laughed, although Lassiter couldn't find anything funny about what he'd just said. He might hate the man ( _you don't really, do you_ , whispered that traitorous voice again), but he didn't actually want Spencer splattered all over the road. It would make O'Hara sulky, for starters, and he really couldn't stand watching a woman cry, especially not over a clown like Spencer. Spencer lifted his head off the back of the couch, cracking one eye open to smirk at Lassiter. “I knew you cared, Lassyfrass. Admit it, you just can't live without me.”

“I lived just fine without you for a few decades, actually. I didn't become head detective by getting a prize out of a cereal box, I put in the work. _Dedication_ , Spencer. Try it sometime.”

Shawn dragged a hand muzzily over his face and took another sip of the water. “You sound like my dad, Lassy. You really should avoid that. Not recommended. He's a total killjoy.”

Lassiter crossed his arms, leaning back into the cushioned chair, studying Spencer for a moment. He must have shaved at least once since being sent home, but clearly not within the last two or three days, and he still looked like toasted shit. Sleep-deprived toasted shit if the dark circles under his eyes said anything. “Just finish the water and go to sleep, Spencer. You clearly need it.”

Lassiter leaned over to turn off the overhead light, leaving the small lamp on the side table on in the hopes that Spencer wouldn't trip over the coffee table when he inevitably woke up in a couple hours with a full bladder. Getting up to go to his own bedroom, Spencer's voice trailed after him, sounding small and fragile. “I didn't mean it, Lassyface. You're not much like my dad at all. I don't think you liked locking me up, not really. Henry would've enjoyed it.”

He wasn't sure why he bothered saying it. Comforting Shawn Spencer was not that high on the list of Lassiter's priorities. But, for reasons unknown, he suddenly found himself attempting it. “No, actually, he was screaming at the Chief all week. I don't know if that helps or not, but Henry... he wasn't happy at all.”

Spencer blinked up at him with watery, squinting eyes in the dim lamp light, and Lassiter thought he was going to say something, but after a moment, he just leaned his head back against the couch. Sighing, Lassiter bent down and yanked Spencer's ratty sneakers off, then grabbed his ankles and pulled at him until he was stretched out on his side across the couch, earning only a slight grunt of protest. Setting the afghan straight again, he headed to bed himself.

* * *

_I knew he secretly loves me_. Shawn smiled to himself, burrowing into the sofa cushions. His head was already pounding, and he sort of wanted to die and had for the last couple of weeks, but he also sort of didn't now.

* * *

Lassiter was, by habit, an early riser most days. There were exceptions – days after long stake-outs when he didn't bother to get out of bed before noon, for example. Today was not one of those days, however. It was a Saturday and not quite 7 a.m. but he found himself rolling out of bed and dragging himself toward the bathroom for his toothbrush and maybe a quick shower.

A thump coming from the direction of his living room, however had him springing for the pistol in his night stand. Just after palming the weapon and thumbing off the safety, the memory of the previous day filtered in and he rolled his eyes, putting the gun away before grumbling his way out of his bedroom to make sure Spencer hadn't left any bodily fluids on his couch.

“If you've messed up that couch, Spencer, you're buying me a new one.”

Spencer, standing in the middle of his living room in the rumpled clothes from the day before, shrank in on himself, covering both of his ears. “Can we not do the yelling thing this morning, please, Lassy? I promise you can shout all you want later.”

Rolling his eyes, Lassiter pointed at the couch, which he noted appeared to be intact. “Sit.” Spencer flopped back onto it without protest, which alone was a testament to how hungover he must be. Lassiter made a bee-line for the coffeemaker in the kitchen.

* * *

The silence was thick between them, but at the moment the only thing Lassiter gave a damn about was the hot coffee in his mug that tasted like a little drop of heaven. He'd plonked a second mug in front of Spencer, although he'd yet to touch it. Finishing his own mug, he went back to refill it and rummaged in the refrigerator, coming up with a slice of stale pizza leftover from two days ago. He didn't bother getting any for Spencer before returning to the living room, not wanting a repeat of the previous evening's vomiting.

“You can shower in the guest bathroom if you want, but you'll have to wait til you get home for fresh clothes. Nothing I have would fit you and I'm not about to lend you anything anyway, I prefer my clothes without ketchup and hot sauce stains.”

Spencer was turning his coffee mug around slowly between his hands but said nothing.

“Did you hear me, Spencer? Huh. Well, suit yourself.”

Spencer sipped the coffee, finally, making a face at the lack of syrup-levels of sugar. “Carlton...”

“Carlton” again. _Oh lord, what's coming now_ , he thought.

“Do you think any of it really matters, does it really help?”

Lassiter snorted. Leave it to Spencer to get all philosophical with a hangover. “Life is what you make of it. Or so I'm told, anyway. Like I would know?”

Spencer shook his head, then cringed at the pain the gesture induced. “Not that. I mean... what I do. You never want my help. Well, _almost_ never, only when you think you're really deep in the shit. Henry thinks I'm a walking joke and I'm going to get people killed, and Gus cares but I think his pharmacy rep side hustle is still more important to him...”

Lassiter pinched at the bridge of his nose, wishing he was somewhere else and not having this conversation. “Ten days in the lock-up and you're having an existential crisis, Spencer? Holy mother of... Do you want me to call someone? Your mom, maybe? Isn't this more her thing?”

Spencer curled around his coffee mug, whether for the warmth or through some weird desire to shield it, or himself, Lassiter wasn't sure. The pinched look on his face briefly had Lassiter afraid that he might start crying, and Lassiter had no clue what he'd do about that. “Spencer, what you do is... I don't actually know what you do, to be quite honest. You're not psychic, that's for damned sure.”

Spencer actually smiled -wryly, briefly, but nonetheless – and gulped down more of the bitter coffee, making another face at the taste of it. “You wound me, Lassy. Of course I'm psychic.”

“Oh, cut the crap, Spencer. There's no such thing and never has been. I don't know how you pull it off, but somehow you do, and do not ask me to repeat this because I will deny I ever said it if you do, but yes, it matters. There are people alive right now who otherwise wouldn't be. Do I approve of your 'methods'? _Hell_ no. Will I ever believe for even half a second you're actually psychic? Also hell no. But the Chief wouldn't waste the department's money if you weren't getting results. Frankly I would like an explanation of what you're doing but I'm not foolish enough to think you'll tell me.”

Spencer tipped the coffee mug back, chugging the rest of it while Lassiter silently prayed it wouldn't all come back up to decorate his floor. “Nah, Lassy, you don't _really_ want to know, anyway. It would ruin the magic. The world needs more magic...”

“Tch. That's debatable. I prefer reality.”

Spencer sniffled and rubbed at his nose with the back of his hand. Lassiter shoved a box of tissues on the coffee table in his general direction and failed to be surprised when it was completely ignored. “Reality is shit, Lassy. Always has been, always will be.”

“Is that why you prefer to act like a twelve year old?”

“Probably, yeah. Beats the alternative.”

“What, growing up and maybe making something out of yourself?”

“More like better than going batshit crazy trying to make sense of it.”

Lassiter finished his second cup of the day and studied the wreck currently beached on his living room sofa. “Is that what was going on in the lock up?”

Spencer shrugged. “Pretty much, I guess. I can't shut it off, you know. If I don't keep moving, my brain keeps going regardless.... til it starts chasing its own damned tail. You don't know what that's like, Lassy.”

Lassiter stared at Spencer, unsure of how to respond to that. It felt like a statement of the obvious, in hindsight. The man was full of frantic energy, constantly ricocheting around and unable to sit still, even when his life literally depended on it. He could babble a constant stream of complete bullshit at a stone-cold murderer pointing a gun at his head, and in this moment Lassiter could see that it wasn't something he could stop if he tried. _Good lord, if he were ever put away in prison for real..._ Lassiter blinked, halting himself and not particularly wanting to complete the thought. “For what it's worth, Spencer, you're right about one thing - I didn't really want to put you in there.”

Spencer continued to turn the empty coffee mug around in his hands, one knee bouncing slightly although at a slightly more subdued rate than usual. He sniffled again, wiping at his nose with the back of a knuckle and Lassiter tried not to take it as a deliberate affront. “That's... good to know, Lassy. You know, they say hell is other people but I'm pretty sure hell is being trapped with nothing but your own thoughts.”

With that, Spencer got up and left the coffee mug on the table. “I think I might take you up on that shower. Then I should probably find Gus and make sure he hasn't ruined my décor in the Psych office this week. And maybe pick the lock on my apartment and call a locksmith to get a new key, because I'm pretty sure I dropped the old one down a storm drain somewhere last night...”

Lassiter nodded at him and headed back to the kitchen with both mugs, dropping them in the sink for later. He could have waited just until Spencer was under the water and turned on the sink, just to hear him shriek, but he was feeling oddly merciful at the moment. _I'm_ definitely _going soft_.

* * *

Come Monday morning, Spencer came blowing into the bullpen with his usual hurricane-like enthusiasm, Guster trailing him like a more well-mannered and better dressed cumulonimbus. Spencer perched himself on O'Hara's desk to flirt with her. She indulged his bullshit for about ten seconds before telling him in so many words to get lost unless he had something useful for their current case. Lassiter braced himself for similar treatment, but Spencer just smiled crookedly at him from the middle of the bullpen. Lassiter looked up and cocked one eyebrow at him in unspoken inquiry.

“Lassy.”

“Spencer.”

With that, Hurricane Spencer and its trailing cloud blew into the Chief’s office and out of earshot behind the closing door.

“What was that all about, Carlton?”

Lassiter thought for a moment, unsure of how much he ought to tell his partner. “Nothing important, really. We had a bit of a chat over the weekend, that's all.”

“A... chat. You and Shawn Spencer. By 'chat' do you mean a shouting match?”

“No, O'Hara. Just talking.” _Amazing what revelations a hangover will inspire,_ he added to himself, but not out loud.

“Fine, you two keep your secrets. I'm going to go grab that file on the Pennington case, you need anything else from the file room?”

“I'm good, thanks O'Hara.”

Roughly two minutes later, Spencer had emerged from the Chief's office with a Cheshire grin. No doubt they'd be looking into the Pennington murder together over the coming week. Lassiter wasn't looking forward to the intrusion, but somehow he was less bothered by it than normal. Guster headed outside immediately while answering a call on his cell phone, but Spencer lingered, wandering in a circuitous fashion through the bullpen. He paused to chat with a few of the other officers, said something that made Buzz McNab laugh until he snorted, then sidled over to perch on the edge of Lassiter's desk, staring down at him with that amusement that Lassiter had always taken for a kind of mockery, but was now not so certain about.

“Spencer.”

“Lassy.”

Lassiter had expected a repeat of their earlier exchange and Spencer's immediate exit, but Spencer remained perched on his desk like a particularly annoying lamp. “Did you need something?”

“Hmmm... not right now. Later, perhaps. I have a few readings on your murderer I need to investigate, but we'll get to that later. Oh, it wasn't the ex-husband, by the way, so don't waste your time barking up that tree anymore.”

“...Right.”

Spencer slid back to his feet and jammed his hands into his pockets, looking at Lassiter with an unreadable expression for a moment before turning on his heel to follow Guster, who was probably getting impatient out in his car at this point.

“Spencer?”

Spencer paused, turning just slightly to look over his shoulder somewhat in Lassiter's direction.

“Spencer... if you ever really need to talk... you know where to find me.”

“Right-o, Lassyfrass.” With an exaggerated salute, the psuedo-psychic trotted out of the bullpen to go steal yet another victory from under Lassiter's nose. He ought to be annoyed, really.

**Author's Note:**

> For those wondering, I spell Shawn's nickname for Lassiter as "Lassy" rather than "Lassie" because that's what Shawn himself did in the little love-note he gave Lassiter about the tire tread patterns back in season one. This is a choice due to personal preference, not an accidental misspelling.


End file.
